When Skies Are Gray
by l.brett.ashley
Summary: Five years after they've last seen each other, Jackie needs something from Hyde. Chaos, of course, ensues.
1. Prologue: Things That Were Right

_Disclaimer: _I don't own anything.

_Author's Note: _I haven't written anything in this fandom in a really, really, really long time, but in the process of cleaning out my hard drive in preparation for transferring files to a new computer, I came across this and thought it deserved a better fate than languishing amidst a bunch of unfinished fics. It's not exactly an original idea but it is a slightly different take on one of my favorite kinds of stories so I hope others will enjoy it as well.

I should also let you know that I probably saw about two minutes total of the final season and this was mostly written during Season 7 (though it's been edited since), so it's possible that I may have gotten some small details concerning Season 8 events wrong. I apologize in advance, but I promise that they won't affect the heart of the story. Besides, I like to pretend Season 8 never happened so... :P

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October 1980

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"So you're really going through with it, huh?"

He corners her in the Formans' empty kitchen, where she's gone for a little time alone. He's wearing his sunglasses and a threadbare concert t-shirt, protectively clutching a beer, and she thinks that if this is her last memory of him, it'll fit in pretty well with all the others.

For weeks now, ever since she made her decision, she's wondered if she'd have a moment like this with him, if he'd take the time to say good bye personally, privately. She knew that he'd show up at the party that Mrs. Forman insisted on throwing, because any occasion where beer and chips are passed around freely suits him just fine, but they've barely spoken three sentences to each other all year, none of which have been particularly civil.

It feels like a lifetime since he broke her heart but she still doesn't know how to act around him.

"Yeah, well, let's face it," she says, relying on her old standby, arrogance, to get her through. "I was always too pretty for such a small town. Think of all the poor girls who'll catch a break now that I won't be around for comparison."

He leans back against the refrigerator, entirely unimpressed. That's the problem with him – he's always seen right through her.

"Yeah but L.A.? Why not pick some place cool, like New York?"

When she thinks about it now, Los Angeles is probably the epitome of everything that he despises, with all its plastic, superficial prettiness and shiny, mass-marketed conformity.

"My mother's out there now," she tells him. "And her current sugar daddy works in TV so he's pulled some strings to get me a production assistant job for some news magazine show. It's not my dream job, because you know, it's all behind the scenes and this is a face that was meant to be seen, but it's a start…"

He bobs his head, in that slow, easy way of his, but doesn't seem inclined to say anything. He's comfortable with silence, with long, weighty looks and simmering tension. There's something about him that's always made her a little nervous, thrown her a little off kilter. She nervously smoothes her hands against her skirt, trying not to show it.

"Besides, you know, it's just time to move on," she babbles stupidly. "I've pretty much run out of options around here. Michael, you, Fez… who's left?" She keeps her tone light, hoping he'll take the high road and not turn this into something ugly. "God, even if Donna wasn't my best friend, there's no way I'd let Eric Forman touch me. I've still got some standards, you know."

He laughs, and she can tell it's the genuine kind, deep and rumbly and full of nothing but amusement.

"Good," he says. "Good for you. Every chick should draw the line at Forman. If only we could have gotten to Donna sooner. We might have been able to save her."

She smiles, nodding absently. It must be the fact that she's leaving tomorrow that makes friendly conversation like this possible. If she were staying in Wisconsin, she doubts that they'd be speaking right now, that they'd be standing in a room alone together at all. He lifts his head then, and she can feel his eyes on her, even if she can't see them through the amber tint of his glasses. He cocks his head, a muscle in his jaw twitching faintly, and she's suddenly on alert because she knows that he's always thoughtful and hesitant like this when he's about to say something important, something that needs to be said.

"You know, I pretty much always knew the thing with us was going to end someday," he says, in a voice that is rough and gentle all at the same time. "Because let's face it – all the things that you want, the life that you're dying to have, I don't give a damn about any of that. It's just not who I am. But I didn't like the way things went down between us. I wish it'd been different."

She blinks, her heart beating so hard that she swears she can hear it roaring in her ears. This is the closest that she's going to get to an apology from him, and she tells herself not to cry, not to make this something more than it really is.

"Water under the bridge," she says brightly, full of false cheer. "Bygones and all that crap."

He shakes his head.

"Seriously, Jackie. It sucked. I know that."

She takes a deep breath, hating the way it trembles out of her when she exhales.

"We're just a couple of dumb kids, Steven," she says, and it takes all the strength she has to keep her voice from shaking. "And think about where we both came from – we didn't exactly have the best role models for functional relationships. Sometimes I think it's a miracle we lasted as long as we did."

He nods slowly, thoughtfully, like he's really taking her words to heart. She watches as he pulls off his glasses then, tucks them inside the neck of his shirt. His eyes are glassy, but as blue as ever. She wonders how much he's had to drink.

"We had some good times, though," he says. "I still remember them."

She bobs her head, and now there's no way to stop the tears, stinging at the corners of her eye.

"Me too. I always will."

The corner of his mouth lifts just a bit and she wonders what he's thinking. He's always been so damn inscrutable, so mysterious and distant. It's never been easy to get inside his head, his heart. But then he's reaching out to cup her cheek, his callused fingers skipping along her skin, and suddenly his intentions are as easy to read as a paperback novel. She doesn't stop him when he leans in to kiss her, as softly and chastely as he ever has. She wants to say that that old spark is gone, that the electricity that always burned white hot between them has fizzled out, but she feels it everywhere that his body touches hers. She lifts her arms to wrap around his neck and he must take that as a sign of encouragement because then he's pressing her back against the cool refrigerator, kissing her hard and desperate like all those humid afternoons in the basement a million summers ago when they were always so sure that someone might burst in at any moment. Her mouth opens under his, almost of its own accord, and the taste of him is like a drug, going straight to her head and leaving her weak as a kitten. His hands grip at her hips, tugging her flush against him, and the feel of his warm, firm body, hard in all the right places, against her snaps her back to reality.

They've been down this road too many times. It never leads anywhere good.

She presses a hand to his chest, pushing him back.

"Steven, wait," she whispers breathlessly. "What are you doing?"

He stares at her, wild-eyed, almost dazed.

"Saying goodbye," he tells her. "I wanna say goodbye."

She sighs, her chest aching. They've never had that, she thinks. They've never had a real, honest goodbye. Maybe that's why there's still a part of her that can't seem to forget the way he made her feel, what it meant to be loved by him.

She nods finally, feeling utterly lost.

He kisses her again, but now he's also maneuvering them toward the basement door, never taking his mouth from hers. Somehow they stumble down the stairs like that, tearing at one another's clothes, breathing into one another's mouths. Later, when she's beneath him on the cot in the backroom, the same place where she first took him inside her years ago, she wonders if all goodbyes feel like this, like you've been ripped to pieces and made whole all at the same time.

On the plane the next afternoon, she thinks that she can still smell him on her skin, like somehow he's marked her for good.


	2. Lifetimes Past

A/N: I apologize for not updating sooner – the story is entirely written, but I'm kind of obsessive about editing. And the holidays are always nuts around here. The next chapter should be up more quickly.

---X---

September 1985

---X---

In six years, the waiting room hadn't all that changed much.

There was still the same dark wood paneling, the same hunter green leather sofa, and the same richly colored Oriental rugs that she remembered. She'd sat in this very spot with Steven once upon a time, fidgeting with his tie and trying desperately to get him as excited about the prospect of meeting his real father as she had been. Of course, that day had ended with him running out when she and Mrs. Forman somehow weren't looking, and more and more, that time seemed increasingly distant, like it had happened in someone else's life. She'd been so eager then, full of hope for a future that had seemed close enough to touch.

It might as well have been another world.

Because now, she felt nothing but dread, her stomach clenching and unclenching like clockwork. She nervously smoothed her skirt over her knees, just to have something to do. She'd chosen her best suit for the occasion, the deep, wine colored jacket and matching skirt with kick pleat in the back, in the hopes of looking something more than desperate. That was mostly a losing battle these days, though. Her personal appearance, once her pride and glory, had become more than a little neglected lately – she was using generic hotel shampoo, for God's sake, and most mornings, she barely had the time to swipe on a quick coat of lipstick and mascara before she was out the door. When she caught her reflection in the mirror now, her face seemed to give everything away, all the perpetual worry and anxiety that lived inside her. This morning, she'd gone with white eyeliner on her lower lids and navy mascara because they supposedly gave the illusion of brighter eyes. She hadn't been fooled for a minute, though – the fear and desperation still shone in her eyes like tears.

Shifting fretfully on the sofa, she fluffed her hair and risked a glance at the clock above the door. She'd told Dr. Chase that she'd only be gone a few hours; if her meeting didn't start soon, she'd be hard pressed to get back to Chicago on time. She twisted her fingers together in her lap, just as the secretary behind the reception desk hung up the phone and smiled at her.

"He'll see you now, Ms. Burkhart. You can go right in."

She nodded gratefully, taking a deep breath as she stood. This wasn't her entire life falling apart, she told herself. That had already happened. This was the first step in making things right. That was how she had to look at it.

When she opened the door, William Barnett sat behind an enormous desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he studied some papers in front of him. He looked almost exactly as he had the last time she'd seen him – there was just a little more gray in his hair now, giving it a silvery sheen. He stood when he saw her, smiling broadly.

"Jackie! Wow. Look at you. You're beautiful."

She toyed with the strap of her purse self-consciously. She knew that she looked like crap, and his saying otherwise out of politeness only made her feel like a charity case. Somehow, she kept herself from frowning and held her hand out to him.

"Mr. Barnett, it's good to see you."

He came out from behind his desk, shaking his head, and reached out to hug her.

"Mr. Barnett?" he laughed. "We're old friends, Jackie. You know you can call me William."

She forced a smile- she'd been a cheerleader; she was practiced in the art of fake smiles. They weren't old friends, though. She was just his long lost son's ex-girlfriend. That hardly earned her a special place in his memory.

"Okay," she said finally, taking a seat opposite his desk. "*William.* Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know you're probably very busy…"

He nodded, his smile slipping just a bit.

"Well, I'm essentially retired these days, so my schedule's pretty wide open," he told her. "And I'm happy to see you, Jackie, but I have to admit, I was pretty surprised when I got your call this morning." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair as he looked at her. "And a little confused when you insisted that I not say anything to Steven… at the risk of being blunt, what's this all about? The last I heard, you were off in California, doing pretty well for yourself. Assistant producer of some entertainment news show or something, right?"

She nodded.

"Associate producer actually. Assistant producer is actually a little higher up the ladder. Like the director. I'm basically the producer's assistant. A step above production assistant really."

"Hey, those are just technicalities," William said. "You're enjoying yourself, though? Because it's really important to do something that you actually like…"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. I'm just on a little break right now."

He smiled.

"Good for you. All work and no play is a recipe for burning out. Believe me."

She bobbed her head slowly, trying desperately not to grimace. William cocked his head, and she felt almost as if he were studying her, noting every crack in her previously flawless façade.

"I've gotta say, though," he continued. "Wisconsin is a pretty strange place to take a vacation. Did you come back to visit your family, friends?"

"Not exactly."

This was the moment of truth, she realized. Now or never.

For weeks now – if not the past five years – she'd tried to prepare herself for this moment in time, this first step in unraveling what was left of her life. It had to be done, though. There was no way around it. She took a deep breath and reached into her purse, pulling the photograph out carefully so she wouldn't crease it. There were tears in her eyes as soon as soon as the image was visible, and her heart felt like a stone in her chest. Silently, she stretched across the desk and held it out for William to take.

"This is my daughter," she said simply. "Lily."

She watched his expression as he looked at the picture, at his soft smile and gentle eyes. It was an understandable reaction – this was one of her favorite photos of Lily, taken only six months earlier (though that may as well have been another lifetime at this point too) when they'd been on the beach in Malibu, her dark curls gleaming in the sun, her pale blue eyes shimmering like stars, and her rosy cheeks and pouty little smile hinting at her mischievous, sassy streak. And still there was something about her expression in the photo that made her seem pensive, like she knew than most little girls did. "She's an old soul," one of the nurses had murmured the night she was born, and Jackie couldn't help but think she was right – there was something inside Lily that was timeless and rare.

"Oh, Jackie," William sighed. "She's gorgeous. I'm sorry – I didn't realize that you'd gotten married and started a family…"

She rubbed at the bare ring finger on her left hand, almost without realizing that she was doing it.

"I'm not married actually."

William looked up from the photo, seeming embarrassed.

"Oh, hey. Who cares, right? I mean, I'm not in any position to judge on that score, you know."

She nodded, watching as he glanced down at Lily's picture again. He seemed to be taking his time, looking at it longer than a mere acquaintance would normally do. She wondered if something had clicked for him, if he'd sensed something familiar.

"She just turned four in July," Jackie found herself saying. "And she's pretty much perfect – beautiful, funny, smart, really, really opinionated. She's perfect…"

All it took was thinking of Lily like that, of how she'd turned out to be more and better than Jackie could have ever imagined, to start the tears. They came so damn easily these days, fast and hard as rain, and once they began, it was nearly impossible to stop them. William looked up in alarm, like he wasn't quite sure what had happened.

"Are you all right, sweetheart?"

He pushed the box of tissues on his desk toward her, and she took one, dabbing at her eyes gently.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" She sighed, the breath trembling out of her in a rush. "She's sick. She has leukemia."

Wiping at her eyes again, she heard rather than saw William move from behind his desk to sit beside her. His hand was warm on her shoulder, comforting, exactly the way a father's touch should be.

"Oh, Jackie. I'm so sorry. That's just…"

She had heard it all before, of course. The sympathy, the pity, the well meaning compassion – from her mother, from her friends at the station, from the doctors and nurses who treated Lily. It always felt so hollow and empty. As if people who'd never been through something like this, who'd never had to worry daily about their child's health, could understand. She felt more alone than she ever had in her life, and every time people tried to tell her how sorry they were, how bad they felt for her, her walls went up just a little bit higher, a little bit thicker.

"She was diagnosed about five months ago," Jackie said, trying to stick to the facts. There was less room for emotion that way. "She'd been getting treatment in Los Angeles and her doctor there thought it was working pretty well, but then, a month ago, she had a relapse. He recommended that we come and see an oncologist at Children's Memorial in Chicago. He specializes in bone marrow transplants. They think that that's the only way at this point so we need to find a donor…"

"And how do you do that?" William asked.

"Well, there's a registry of donors so she's on a waiting list but it can take a really long time to find a match. The best hope is usually someone in the family."

He nodded solemnly.

"Wow. That's a lot to take in. How are you dealing with all of this sweetheart?"

"I'm just trying to stay focused," she said. "I'm just trying to hold it all together… for Lily's sake. But it's so hard. I'm scared. I'm really, really scared…"

William rubbed her shoulder, and she tried not to flinch away from his hand. He was being so kind, so compassionate and understanding, but she hated it because she knew, deep down, that she didn't deserve it. He nodded absently, like he'd just realized something.

"I think I understand why you're here now," he said.

She watched in panic as he rose from the chair and moved back behind his desk. He opened a drawer, rooting around inside for a moment. She had no idea what he was doing - if he really knew why she'd come, he'd be reaching for the phone, dialing the one person on earth that Jackie wasn't sure she could face. Instead, he tugged something from the drawer and placed it on the blotter in front of him. After a moment, she realized that it was a checkbook.

"How much do you need, honey? And don't feel bad about it either. Just tell me what you need."

She frowned and felt her cheeks grow warm. God. He seriously did think that she was a charity case.

"No," she said. "No, William. I don't need your money."

He cocked his head, looking at her in confusion.

"I don't understand then. What do you-"

"Lily needs a donor," she repeated. "We need to test her family."

His brow furrowed as he took in her words and turned them over in his mind. She knew the exact moment that he understood because the realization seemed to dawn in his dark eyes. He looked down at Lily's picture again, still lying on his desk. He tapped his finger against it.

"This is…"

Jackie nodded, her hands shaking.

"She's Steven's daughter."

* * *

A/N 2: Yeah, not terribly original, I know. LOL. If you hang in there, though, there's some good stuff coming up. I promise. ;)


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